Mystery dinner invitations

It's one of those interview or cocktail hour questions: If you could invite [insert number here] people, past or present, to dinner, who would you invite? Common responses are people like Albert Einstein, Johnny Cash, and even Anakin Skywalker. 

But to the family researcher, this would be an amazing opportunity. I would love to hear from my great-grandmother Julia about the love affair that brought her daughter into the world--and how she felt about that daughter finding her birth father as a grown woman. I would also ask if she actually married my great-grandfather, and what on earth they were doing having a baby in a mining town in Nevada when their lives were in San Francisco. 

I would also invite my great-grandfather, who accepted Julia, a woman with a past (and a young daughter), and gave them his name and heart. I would want to talk to him about why he split from his family in New York, how he got across the country (was he aiming for San Francisco, or is it just where he ended up?). I'd also love to know how, if he wasn't speaking to (or about) his family, did he end up with his older brother's trophy. I actually would love sitting down with the entirety of the New York Walshes, even if they might well empty my stores of whiskey. 

I think I would enjoy talking with my great uncle Vincent, who drove a flashy car, married a new-age German woman (who sang opera and penned poetry), and who left his house to his secretary, a spinster who kept the business running while he was living it up with his wife. He's also the younger brother who stepped up for his nephew when my grandfather died prematurely. As an aside, I would let him know that we share a birthday, and ask if he knew the circumstances of his birth. We'd probably share some laughs, too. Of course, I'd set the table with his wife's silver, which was passed on to me. 

I might also include my Grammie, with whom we shared meals every Sunday, and for all her commitment to family research left us precious little about her own life and family. I know she was social, and I would love to sit with her, and have her tell me who the smiling people in the group pictures were. I'd really like to ask about George, who is clearly her beau, but did not become her husband. We would use her silver, monogramed with her maiden initials on the table.

I would be beyond ecstatic to fill my weekend calendars with dinner parties for each and every one of my brick walls, but alas, that is not part of the question, and those amazing conversations will never take place. 

They say that dead men don't speak, but the fact that part of them literally forms part of us in the form of inherited DNA, does give voice to them, confirming the family lore, or exposing secrets buried over the generations. Those of us with stamped letters and envelopes sealed with a kiss and Victorian hair art will hold on to them, as they may allow our ancestors to speak once more, even if we can’t invite them to dinner.

A message from the past that may speak to us

Secret sign

Among the treasures handed down to me is a small wicker box containing several medals and ribbons: some are from my father's military service, a whole bunch are tarnished medals from my grandfather Albert Walsh's short career as a one-mile walker, but the most elaborate are those from my grandfather's involvement with masonic organizations. Deeper research indicates that his brother Vincent was also a member of the order. Unfortunately, the fancy fez headgear did not survive. 

In his obituary we learn he was a member of "Henry Clay Lodge No. 95 F & AM, California Bodies Scottish Rite Islam Temple, Royal Order of Jesters," all part of the Masonic landscape. Sure enough, there are a number of Shriner pins (fez and sword), as well as some from the Royal Order of Jesters, naming Albert a "Light Comedian," and other bits adorned with Billiken, their chubby mascot ("The God of Things as They Ought To Be"). 

In her photo album, his mother Julia pastes pictures of Albert with his Shriner group; it seems ironic that the current Masonic Temple in San Francisco, across the street from Grace Cathedral, was completed only a year before he died.

My father knew his dad was a Mason ("wide mouth?" we would joke with innocent hilarity), but he never seemed to be a joiner; it was only in his 50s that he decided to join a church and the historical society. 

So there was some joy in hearing that in his 70s, he was invited to join The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, a fraternal organization dedicated to preserving western heritage (at the time, he was president of the Shasta Historical Society), known for placing historical markers throughout the west. But my father was never one to take things too seriously (his father was a light comedian, after all): the name of the group  is improper Latin that translates loosely as, "I believe it because it is absurd." In addition to placing plaques ("doin's"), they did fundraising for "widders and orphans," and held beer-fueled camps called colloquia. But the best part was that they had rituals: wear a black hat and a red shirt, give the "secret sign" to fellow Clampers if you should see them about town. He delighted in teaching the gesture to our toddler son; I can't tell you what it is, because it's a secret. 

Albert - back row, first on left